


The Muskett Family Reunion

by musicmillennia



Series: The Unusuals [6]
Category: Addams Family (TV 1964), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, D'Artagnan may or may not be Wednesday, Everyone be prepared to snap aggressively, Family Fluff, Fluff, French Pet Names, Ghosts, I have officially gone off the deep end, Jealousy, Kissing, Multi, Someone stop me, Spanish Pet Names, shut up don't judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A reunion? Sounds like a great idea...bijou."<br/>"Querido. When you speak French, it drives me wild!"</p><p>Or: Aramis and Porthos Muskett decide to do something special for their son's eighteenth birthday. Guests are not limited to family, but their neighborhood is always so reluctant to visit their charmingly bleak house. Wonder why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Muskett Family Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RobinLorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/gifts).



> This is part of my Unusuals series because, well, Addams Family crossover. Pretty unusual, wouldn't you say?
> 
> Dedicated to hippity-hoppity-brigade/RobinLorin because it was her post that did this to my muse. I tried my best to emulate the Addamsesque humor. If I overdid anything or underdid anything, please let me know.
> 
> (I am so sorry.)

It was a lovely day: clouds had gathered overhead; the wind howled like a dying man; autumn's chill cut right to the bone. Aramis sighed in contentment, sipping at his henbane as he watched lightning flash outside. So relaxing.

A pair of arms wrapped around him, as cold and firm as hail. Aramis grinned into his cup.

"What're you smiling about?" Porthos asked him.

"The beauty of nature,  _querido_. It has been like this all week--I think it is a sign that D'Artagnan's birthday is going to be the best one yet."

"Even better than his tenth?"

Aramis chuckled, remembering the delightful screams of the guests as the tarantulas ran rampant about the yard. "Well, perhaps his second best." Reaching into his black suit jacket, he pulled out a folded letter between his index and middle fingers. "Look what came in the mail this morning."

Porthos kept one arm still hooked around Aramis as he took the letter and opened it. After a moment of reading through it, he let out one of his boisterous laughs, the same kind that sounded like the thunder rumbling in the storm. Aramis' insides turned absolutely cold with it.

Seizing his husband's free hand, he said, "Porthos, you know what you do to me when you laugh like that." he showered that hand and its arm with kisses, almost dropping his cup of henbane in his passion. Luckily, Porthos managed to shift the letter in his fingers and take the nice china from him.

"How did you get Milady and Athos to come up here?" he asked, taking his own swig of henbane; he didn't like to brag, but he was damn good at making the stuff. "It's the middle of their anniversary."

Aramis hummed, reaching Porthos' elbow with his lips. As he kissed his way back down, he was able to reply, "Athos loves doting on D'Artagnan. You know that. Eighteenth birthday--very important for a young man."

"So what's their excuse for missing Cousin Ninon's Mabon celebration last year?"

"Well, you know--Athos proposed to Milady on Mabon." _  
_

Porthos grunted, "That's awfully romantic. Sure you didn't have a hand in it?"

Aramis smirked up at him, finished with lavishing his arm for now. "I might have given him a couple pointers."

"And he accepted 'em?"

"Dear Porthos. When one sees how happy we are, settled in such a ghastly home with a terror of a son, why wouldn't one wish for it?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow at him, something he clearly learned from the cousin in question. "You bribed him with the wine in the basement, didn't you?"

"I prefer to call it a helpful dose of persuasion."

Porthos shook his head, walking to the kitchen. "If it wasn't Jude's lunchtime, I'd smack yah."

Aramis instantly chased after him. " _Querido,_ you know how much I love violence in a man! You cannot just leave me here with that!"

Unfortunately for Aramis, three loud sweeping sounds echoed off the walls, signalling the afternoon mail's arrival. Porthos managed to escape his spouse's grabbing hands when an entirely new hand lifted out of a dark wood box on a hall end table, holding a surprisingly thick stack of envelopes.

"Thank you, Thing," Aramis huffed, still staring after Porthos' tentacle-like coattails as he blindly reached out to take it. Thing obligingly turned to the left when he missed entirely; Aramis was a(n acquitted) killer with his throwing knives and pistols, but when distracted by Porthos he was utterly impossible. To be sure, he did not even noticed D'Artagnan calling for him until the young man was snapping his fingers right next to his ear.

"Father! Fa-a-a-ather!"

Aramis tore his eyes from the kitchen door and quickly sorted through the mail. Bills, bills, bills...a welcoming sight, to be sure, but he knew what D'Artagnan wanted to see.

As expected, the rest of the stack was addressed to  _D'Artagnan Muskett._ Some, to Aramis' alarm, were a crisp white with stamps of birds or flags; thankfully, more of them were of older, mustier quality, his son's name written in neat, curving fountain pen ink. Many of Porthos' and his relatives in France and Spain always had such taste when it came to cards. Aramis fondly recalled his and Porthos' first honeymoon, when Cousin Sofia and her husband Francesco sent them a hemlock-scented letter with pressed wisteria as a border. (What a week that had been; that old soldiers' garrison in Paris had been  _haunted_. Sometimes, you really could have everything.)

"D'Artagnan, did I ever tell you how your father and I found this house?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan dutifully recited: "On your first honeymoon you visited a haunted garrison in France and decided to look into properties like it in America, you found one, rebuilt it, made it decrepit, and even bought an old chest plate from the other garrison. That is also how Uncle Tréville and Uncle Richelieu came to stay with us. Can I have my cards now?"

"If you had recounted that beautiful story with more passion, I might have allowed you Cousin Isabelle's."

"Oh, come on--"

"Ah, ah! You know the rules: no cards or presents before your birthday."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes; he was getting so insufferable in these teen years. More and more Aramis found himself longing for that little gap-toothed boy with a witch's cackle who could never be separated from his guillotine.

"What if I wrote a sonnet about your fifth honeymoon?" his son asked flatly, yanking him back to the present.

"Sarcasm is unbecoming of you. Now go help your father with his plants; the roses have been much too persistent with blooming."

(&)

While Porthos fed Jude, his African Strangler, and D'Artagnan clipped the roses, Aramis wrote the last of the invitations for the party. The guest list had undergone a few additions by the birthday boy--("I'm a  _man_ now!" "Of course, little bat, of course.")--though thankfully they were all locals and did not need to be sent by carrier pigeon like the others. Nevertheless, D'Artagnan's list was dreadfully short, consisting of two and a half names, the half being a crossed-out smudge. Did D'Artagnan not know that Grandfather Smudge had been dead for five years?

"D'Artagnan," he called over his shoulder. D'Artagnan paused in his task and came over, sheers still in hand. "About Smudge..."

Suddenly D'Artagnan's cheeks turned pink. He scratched his forehead, forgetting about the sheers and nearly cutting himself. "I don't think she would want to come."

Aramis blinked. He looked at Porthos, who shrugged. "She?"

"I--that is, Constance. From down the street."

"Constance Bonacieux?" when D'Artagnan nodded at him, Porthos grinned, showing off his beautiful tombstone-white teeth. "Remember her, Aramis? The widow who let you help with those bats in her attic?"

Aramis brightened, "That's right! Lovely woman. She even allowed me to take them home. Such a strong slap, too. And her scream! I could hear her shouting from down the street!"

"Careful, Aramis," Porthos warned him, "you might make me jealous."

Aramis shot from his seat and snatched Porthos' hand. "Perish the thought,  _querido_. Your lesson of monogamy will stay with me long after we have rotted together in our cemetery."

D'Artagnan made a disgusted noise. At least he had not lost that from his childhood. "You have been married for thirteen years," he whined. "Why can't you argue and spit fire at each other like Uncle Tréville and Uncle Richelieu? Father,  _stop that_!"

'That' being Aramis kissing up Porthos' arm again, this time not stopping at the elbow but traveling all the way to Porthos' back and shoulders.

"Jude'll get cranky if I don't give her the rest of 'er burger," Porthos conceded, though he sounded amused and fond. Aramis grumbled but relented...until Porthos said, " _Merci, cher,_ " and he couldn't help himself.

D'Artagnan groaned, "I am going to stab my eyes with these sheers."

"Hey now little bat, none of that talk," Porthos scolded, offering the glass bowl of hamburger for Jude to eat freely from instead of picking portions with his fork. "You know the knives in the playroom are better. An' don't worry about Constance; she'll come."

Another strange reaction: D'Artagnan gulped and fidgeted where he stood. Then he started  _stuttering_. "I-I don't think--she's always so busy with her tailoring business--"

Aramis pulled his lips from Porthos' back. "Tailoring business? Porthos, how did we not know there was a tailor just down the street?"

D'Artagnan spoke over any possible reply: "Yes, and she's very good. More than good, she's...absolutely amazing."

Porthos chuckled low in his throat. "Doesn't sound like you're talking about her business."

Aramis gaped. "D'Artagnan! Are you in love with a woman? And you did not tell  _me_ about it?" _  
_

Their son did not deny it, merely replied with a withering glare and a short, "The last time I told you I had feelings for someone, your advice made him call the police on me."

Aramis sniffed, standing a little straighter. "It's not my fault that he lacked taste. I wooed your father with a necklace of fingers, you know."

"I'da married you even without that necklace," Porthos smiled.

" _Querido_..."

D'Artagnan threw his hands up and left the room.

Porthos' smile turned into a concerned frown. "I think we've upset 'im."

A creaking sound turned their attention to the box next to the small pile of invitations. Thing appeared, beckoning them closer.

"What is it, Thing?" Porthos asked. Thing gave a series of systematic knocks. Morse code, his favored way of direct communication besides gestures. "Invite Constance anyway?"

"Of course!" Aramis beamed, smacking Porthos' arm. "She can be another surprise!"

"Think he'll appreciate it, though? He an' Athos can get moody when it comes to women."

"Athos gets moody about everything, so your argument is invalid. Thank you Thing; you're a genius! We'll invite her in person--it'll give us a chance to get to know her better, in case she and D'Artagnan get married, and we can see some of her work."

Porthos kissed his temple, "I love when you get enthusiastic about things,  _bijou_."

"Porthos."

"Hm?"

"Say something else in French."

(&)

When Aramis had regained control of himself, he and Porthos looked up Mrs. Bonacieux's shop. That was how Constance came to see a sleek black Packard Twin Six pulling into her little establishment's parking lot, driven by a giant of a man in a black velvet buttoned-up coat with another man in a black suit jacket, pants, and shirt, both wearing round sunglasses with gold rims.

She recognized them immediately, or at least the long-haired one: Mr. Aramis Muskett, devastatingly attractive, a strange fixation with bats, and a terrible flirt. Already married, he had told her, just before asking her to dinner! Unbelievable.

Still, he  _was_ rich. Constance needed money, or she would be bankrupt by the end of the year. If he and his friend intended to buy something, she would have to suffer through it. Resolve in place, she bustled to the front of the shop as the bell above the door tinkled.

"I have no idea how people walk around during the day," her neighbor complained, removing his sunglasses in perfect tandem with his friend, "Porthos, be honest: am I turning...tan?"

He sounded so genuinely frightened despite the dark clouds covering the sun outside that Constance almost laughed. The temptation worsened when the giant, Porthos apparently (what an odd name!) replied with utmost sincerity, "Don't worry, 'Mis. You look as pale as the Captain."

"Oh, Porthos. Flattery will get you everywhere."

Constance's insides constricted as they kissed in the doorway. Porthos was The Husband. Did he know about his spouse's attempt to ask her on a date? It didn't look like it. Or perhaps the marriage was an open one? Again, it didn't look like it. How  _dare_ he?!

 _Calm down, Constance,_ she told herself,  _just this once, let it slide. Once you've paid the bills, you can give him another slap._

Which reminded her: why was Mr. Muskett grinning at her?

"Madame, what a pleasure to see you again!" he exclaimed, "I must apologize for not coming sooner. If I had known there was a tailor near our house with your obvious caliber, I would already have my cousin's new funeral gown for Christmas!" 

Constance's forced smile faded into confusion. "A funeral gown...for Christmas?"

Porthos nodded. "Never know when you might need one. We passed a procession ourselves just now."

Aramis added, "But we were so eager to talk to you we managed to keep driving. "

"Uh...thank you...?"  _Merde! Politeness, Constance!_ She pasted her smile back on. "How can I help you today, Mr. and Mr. Muskett?"

"You can call us Messieurs, if it's easier," Porthos said, with the kindest smile she'd ever seen. Why would Aramis want to cheat on someone with a smile like that? Despicable.

"That obvious?" she joked.

"Oh, it took some detective work, but I got it eventually. The name's just so American an' all."

Aramis was a horrible person, hanging off Porthos' arm like that after what he had tried to do. Porthos seemed like a wonderful person, and Constance only just met him.

" _Merci, Messieurs,_ " she responded.

" _De rien, Madame,_ " Aramis said. Constance tried not to glare at him; she most likely failed. Regardless, he continued, "We actually came by to invite you to our son D'Artagnan's birthday party."

D'Artagnan? Why did that name sound familiar? "Me,  _monsieur_? Forgive me, but we barely know each other."

Hopefully Aramis would read into her look. He didn't. On the contrary, he looked surprised.

"Dear Madame Bonacieux, that is what parties are for! Getting to know new people is half the fun! And besides, it would make D'Artagnan's evening if you were to grace him with your presence."

Why--oh. Oh! " _Tiens,_ D'Artagnan! My apologies, I should have recognized the French name. That young man with the deathly pallor?" goodness, but the couple looked to be in their late thirties at most. D'Artagnan was sickly, yes, but he was distinctly a young adult.

Porthos grinned, "Noticed that, did yah? 'e's been moon-bathing every night."

"I am sure he will be delighted to know you saw the change," Aramis said.

Constance blinked once, twice, three times. "Don't you mean sun-bathing?"

Aramis' hand slapped over his chest. "Heavens, no! We will not have our child walking around with rosy cheeks and burnt skin unless he explicitly begged us."

"...right...ehm, I am afraid to say that D'Artagnan and I have never spoken. He always lingered outside my shop but never came in to say hello."

Porthos snorted, "Always so shy around women. Sorry about that, we've tried to teach him manners ever since he ran screaming from the poor Sisters at his orphanage."

"But he did run right into our arms," Aramis conceded with an affectionate expression, "still, demanding those nice women not to wear black was a terrible thing to say."

All thoughts of politeness had flown out the window and were run over by a semi. America had not been a good influence on Constance. "Why was he demanding they not wear black?"

"He said it was misleading. Black is such a lovely color you know, always promising helpful things. A batch of my husband's fricassee of toad calmed him down."

Fricassee of _what_?

"Ah, we're rambling," Porthos laughed. "Enough about that. Will you come? The party's next Friday at five."

He looked so earnest and sweet, despite his strange preferences for food and 'moon-bathing'. Constance couldn't take it. Debts or no, she had to say something to this unfortunate man.

"I am sorry _monsieur,_ but after what your  _husband_ did, I could never in good conscience go to a party for your son."

Aramis had the nerve to look innocent. "Have I offended you, Madame? Please tell me your grievances, that I may apologize for them."

Constance's face turned red with indignation. A loud _SMACK_ reverberated off the shop's walls. 

"You--you--! You told me you were married, and then kissed my hand! Asking me out to dinner! You even had the nerve to-to  _strip_ in front of me! I have never seen a man take off his shirt just for the sake of trapping  _bats,_ and why are you smiling?!"

The question was directed at Porthos, who indeed was grinning at Aramis from ear to ear. Aramis, who wore the expression of a man whose dog had been hit by a car.

"So  _that's_ why she slapped you," Porthos said, unbridled affection softening his words. "We talked about this, darlin'. People here don't like it when you kiss their hands."

Aramis looked at him. "But--how else am I supposed to show them how beautiful they are? Simply telling them is never enough, you know; no one believes me that way." Turning back to a flabbergasted Constance, "Certainly not you, Madame. When I told you how marvelous your blouse was, you simply waved me off."

"Wha-I slapped you when you kissed my hand!" Constance protested.

"Yes, exactly!"

Porthos chuckled, "Forgive 'im, Madame. Aramis likes to appreciate beauty whenever 'e finds it. He won't do it again if you didn't like it."

"Obviously not," Aramis said, waving dismissively, "I do apologize if I gave you the wrong impression. Furthermore, when I asked you to dinner, I meant at our home. For some reason our other neighbors are rarely as forthcoming as you are. It is almost as if they would rather us go back to Europe! So when you so graciously allowed me to keep the bats in your attic for our own, I thought we could be friends."

These people were nuts.

"I am sorry for misunderstanding--" Constance tried, but Aramis interrupted, "No, no, the fault is entirely mine. I should have remembered to be more considerate to how others may react to my actions. Porthos constantly tries to remind me."

Constance sighed. Nuts, yes, but actually very sweet.

"Next Friday at five, you said? At that house that used to be a garrison?"

Porthos nodded. "Formal dress, o' course. Be sure t'wear something black."

(&)

That night, the storm grew worse. The house seemed to shake at its very foundations against the wind, creating a frightening series of creaks that teased at knocking everything off its hinges and sending the house's residents plunging to their burials.

"Reminds me of when we met," Porthos murmured as they laid in bed together, "D'you remember?"

"Porthos, how could I forget?" Aramis replied, one ear pressed against Porthos' stomach, which clinked and clunked as he digested their dinner, the other ear listening to the vicious storm. "The wind had torn your umbrella out of your hand. Some people thought it the closest Pennsylvania could have to a hurricane. And you were so handsome in that spider web suit. I fell in love the instant I saw you across the fresh grave."

"And then you offered your umbrella and asked if we could share a grave just like that one someday. Tha's when I fell for you, y'know."

" _Querido_."

" _Bijou_."

"Teenagers."

The couple started apart, focusing on their unexpected visitors. When the ghastly pale faces registered, Aramis vaguely wished he was wearing pants and Porthos definitely wished he was wearing a shirt.

"Captain," they greeted together with chilling smiles. Then to the other, they bared their teeth in a way that resembled their pet lion, Addam. "Cardinal."

Tréville and Richelieu stared at them with raised eyebrows, one amused, the other annoyed.

"Honestly," Richelieu snapped, "Can you last one hour without waltzing about like hopeless idiots?"

"Waltzing..." Aramis shot up, grabbing Porthos' arm. "Porthos! We have not waltzed the entire day!"

Richelieu turned his eyes to the ceiling while Tréville tried in vain to keep back a smile. Porthos, however, immediately leaped out of bed and held out his hand.

"God help us all!" the Cardinal yelled as Aramis was pulled out from under the covers, "Put some trousers on! Your wretched cousin is here!"

"Which one?" Porthos asked as he and Aramis twirled around the room, only one shirt and pair of pants between them and both on himself.

"Athos," Tréville replied.

"Then why do I have to put trousers on?" asked Aramis.

(&)

Thus, Athos Muskett suddenly found himself with an armful of naked Aramis and a cackling wife standing behind him. Porthos hugged them both, his laughter shaking the house as horribly as the wind.

"Porthos! That laugh!"

"Don't involve me in this," Athos demanded flatly, leaning as much as he could away from Aramis' salivating mouth as it tried to find every patch of skin it could on Porthos.

His stoic tones echoed up the halls as they kindly passed them along to D'Artagnan's door, which opened to welcome them inside the room, where the young man rested with his arms crossed over his chest.

Sunken eyes burst open wide.

A frightful, deafening bat's shriek rang loud, piercing everyone's eardrums.

"Sounds like D'Artagnan knows you're here," Porthos grinned, "Better brace for impact."

Athos' mouth curled into a fiendish smile, all too happy to escape Aramis' seeking mouth (it had landed a couple accidental kisses to his neck already). He walked to the center of the entrance hall and spread his feet shoulder-width apart. The shrieking grew impossibly louder, approaching the staircase.

The trio behind him started counting down: "Five, four, three, two, one--!"

Many years of experience had given Athos the perfect way to perform a catch-and-twist maneuver that prevented headaches and sudden impacts with the floor when D'Artagnan flew at him at fifty miles an hour (his record stood at fifty-five). They spun around, exactly four hundred and eighty degrees, giving D'Artagnan's legs enough time to pull out from the air and wrap around Athos' waist.

"Uncle Athos!" D'Artagnan cried, squeezing his arms around Athos' neck.

Athos choked, triggering a salacious smile from Milady. "Try not to suffocate him, D'Artagnan," she called, "Only I am allowed to do that."

D'Artagnan obediently loosened his arms. Athos croaked, "Hello, D'Artagnan."

"Apologies for our early arrival," Milady said to Aramis and Porthos, "But the weather was so fine, and Athos misses you all dearly. He barely howls when you're not around, especially without your youngest."

Aramis took her hands into his. "Darling Charlotte," he said, "manipulative, thieving, ruthless, murderous Charlotte. How could we ever turn you away?" They kissed each other's cheek.

"I'll carry him back upstairs," Athos said over D'Artagnan's shoulder, already heading to the stairs with the man still hanging off of him.

"It'll be so nice to have a living body in our bed again," Milady said, her leather and lace dress swishing along under her thick cloak as she followed her husband.

"Your bags'll be up in a few minutes," Porthos informed them. He reached over and pulled on a rope. A boom rattled everyone's teeth.

A shadow, thin and taller than even him, appeared an instant later.

"You rang?"

"Lurch, please bring Athos and Milady's luggage to their room."

Lurch was the butler of the house, sturdy and reliable. If anyone could walk in a straight line in a storm as bad as this one, it was him.

"Shall I also bring Mr. Muskett a robe?"

Aramis looked down at himself, as if just remembering he was naked. "Actually Lurch, I think I shall go put on a suit. Porthos and I were interrupted during our waltz, after all."

"Still can't believe it's been a whole day," Porthos despaired, "What are we becoming?"

Aramis took his hand. "Don't torture yourself, Porthos," kissing his palm, "that's my job."

(&)

The party was in full swing when Constance arrived in the best black dress she owned. Seeing the fancy ballgowns however, with their rich dark colors and veils sashaying under the glass chandelier, made her form-fitting one with old elbow-length white gloves feel far too plain, to the point of embarrassment.

Once, she had perhaps one neighbor to call friend, a sweet woman by the name of Amelia Reed. Unfortunately, she was swept away by a newcomer in town some years ago, and Constance never heard from her again. If not for her single brief postcard from her new home in Miami, Constance would have thought her kidnapped or dead. Since then, she could not find another person to talk to, even after her tyrannical husband finally bit it.

In short, Constance wanted friends. Aramis apologized; Porthos was a dear. Maybe she could finally use her living room to host living people instead of empty spaces and take out cartons.

"Constance?"

She turned, and there was that young man who always hesitated outside her shop. D'Artagnan approached her from where he had been conversing with a thickly bearded gentleman dressed in unimaginably tight leather, now watching her with interest. The guest of honor's gaunt face and open brown eyes were given a paler accent by the long black coat, trousers, and neckcloth. Still looking sickly, but not at all unattractive.

"You look like a witch about to be taken to the pyre," he told her, the unbidden adoration shining in his eyes as surprising as his...compliment?

"That's certainly a new one," Constance replied. "Is everyone here really all part of your family?"

"Oh no," D'Artagnan said, "The Musketts really aren't  _that_ prolific. Ten of the guests are from the neighborhood."

"Ten." out of, what, a hundred?

"Yes. Would you like to meet them? I could introduce you."

Constance couldn't help but smile at his earnest tone. "Maybe we could get to know each other first? I've seen you outside my shop so many times, but you never come in."

A light pink dusted his cheeks, and  _oh_. She had four older brothers; she knew that look in a man's eye.

The worst part was she couldn't even find it cute. He was too good-looking.

 _Merde_.

(&)

"Looks like the plan is working," Aramis informed Porthos, nodding to D'Artagnan and Constance. "Ah, young love."

"She is easily ten years his senior," Cousin Ninon teased.

"Did that stop  _you_?" Aramis countered, gesturing his glass at Cousin Fleur, who looked like a pretty wilting blossom in her new dress.

Athos stopped whatever reply Ninon would have given by approaching with Milady and asking who that woman was. As Porthos and Aramis related to him the particulars as they knew them, Ninon and Milady scrutinized each other.

"Ninon," Milady greeted curtly, "What a pleasant surprise. I thought you and Fleur would still be in Paris."

"And miss dear D'Artagnan's eighteenth birthday? Nonsense," Ninon replied with equally frigid civility, "And how is married life treating you? I do hope Athos is as moody and depressing as he was when we were engaged."

"He is even worse than before. Gets drunk nearly every day now."

They stared and stared. A moment later they both broke at the same time into a fit of laughter. They trotted away from the men, arm in arm, and began chattering about Ninon's school, her students, and Milady's latest bout of espionage. Along the way, Cousin Anne twirled away from her husband Louis and, as graceful as a swan, spun right in between them. After that, the conversation flowed towards the more usual topics discussed between elles: power, murder, etc.

Meanwhile, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stood together discussing them for a while, as well as speculating the odds of D'Artagnan getting close to Constance. They were all obviously of the unanimous opinion that D'Artagnan, while still in possession of the brashness of youth, would nevertheless at least be getting a kiss by the end of the evening. How could anybody not like him? After all, he was already so easy to hate.

Tréville and Richelieu faded in during the conversation, arm in arm as well. Surprisingly enough, Richelieu actually agreed with them. When asked, he patted Tréville's hand and explained, "She has the same look he did," meaning the lover with whom he was burned alive for sodomy in the seventeenth century.

Tréville nudged him with a smile. " _Now_ who's hopeless?"

Richelieu glared at him, but said nothing else in reply.

"Ah, old love," Aramis sighed as they took a turn about the ballroom, saying hello to the friendly grimaces of the Muskett family and the frightened screams of the other guests. "Do you suppose we will ever be like that, Porthos? Stuck together, doomed to haunt this house for all eternity in never-ending suffering?"

Porthos kissed his cheek. "Don't tease."

Athos huffed a laugh. "And here I keep worrying my leaving would have put a strain on things."

Porthos was quick to reassure him. "Aw, don't sell yourself short, Athos. No one can fence like you across the dining room table."

"Besides, we know you wouldn't hang just  _anybody_ from a tree," Aramis added.

Athos inclined his head, "I will say that, for once, your advice did have some merit, Aramis."

"No need to act so surprised! Need I remind you that I caught my other half by relying solely on my abilities?"

"Yes, but then again Porthos was always a generous soul. He did burn that Rochefort man  _after_ Anne took his eyes."

Porthos put a hand over his heart. Aramis spluttered, about to say alright, point taken,  _but_ \--suddenly though, his eyes caught on someone across the room and the words died on his lips faster than his father on that hospital slab (which by the way had been a complete accident, thank you Officer). Color rose to his pale cheeks, giving them a rosy hue that caused both his husband and cousin to demand what was the matter.

"You did not tell me you invited  _her._ "

Porthos followed his gaze, and his mouth dropped. "'Cause I didn't think she'd come," he said, immediately releasing Aramis to hurry over and envelop  _Alice Clerbeaux_ in one of his special hugs.

"The Widow," Athos said, flaccid tone betraying surprise. Aramis loved his cousin all the more for using the moniker and not the dreaded name. "But she has never met D'Artagnan."

"Does it matter?" Aramis spat, finishing the rest of his champagne in one gulp.

"Come now Aramis, you cannot say she is not a nice woman."

"Nice, yes. Worthy of Porthos? Never."

Athos' lip curled upwards. "Is anyone truly worthy of Porthos? Even you?"

Aramis shifted from foot to foot. "No," he mumbled. Raising his voice again, "But I can at least say that I give him what he needs--walks through swamps, a creaking house, unhappiness. I do not understand what is so appealing about  _her_ , even after all this time. To not even mention his sending her an invitation..." he made a pointless gesture.

Athos patted his back. "There, there."

"Athos, please. We both know you are frightful at consolation."

"I do my best." When Aramis sighed, face settling into ( _what was_ _absolutely not_ ) a pout, Athos could not help but try again. "Everyone dead and alive knows Porthos adores you. He would kill for you."

"They never proved anything," Aramis snapped.

"My point still stands. There is no need to be jealous."

"I am  _not_ \--" Athos' eyebrow rose. "I am only a  _little_ \--" Higher. "I--" The other eyebrow joined its partner. "...shut up." _  
_

"I did not say anything."

"I was talking to your eyebrows."

"Oh," Athos touched them briefly, "Are they acting up again?"

"I thought you and Charlotte finally tamed them last year."

"I suppose they were faking it. They do have a tendency for the theatrical."

"Shall I retrieve the hot wax? Lurch always heats some up for his bath, but I am sure he can be persuaded to part with a small jar."

"That will not be necessary, but thank you."

Aramis nodded, glancing back at where Porthos and The Widow were...only to find them coming directly towards him and Athos, pressed together like young lovers about to descend into the void together. It made Aramis sick.

The Widow smiled at him, radiant with life. Disgusting. "I was just telling Porthos how he has not changed a bit," she said.

"Except for the fact that he's married," Aramis helpfully pointed out, trapping Porthos' wrist in a death grip.

"That's right, I never properly introduced you two," Porthos realized. "Alice, this is my husband, Aramis. Aramis, this is  _Alice_."

Translation: Aramis, call her by her actual name, or I will be Very Upset.

Aramis put on his best grimace. "Pleasure," he said through gritted teeth. "Have you met Cousin Athos?"

"I am sure I would have remembered meeting you, Madame," Athos said, earning a glare from Aramis and a wide-eyed stare from Porthos.

"My, Porthos, I never knew anyone with so many cousins!" Alice giggled, forcing Aramis to go to his inner-torture chamber for a moment to strap himself down and regain composure.

Athos explained, "Actually I am Aramis' grandfather's sister-in-law's great-grandson's cousin. Once removed, but only by accident I assure you."

"...oh," Alice said, fluttering her eyelashes enough to make them look positively knife-worthy for Aramis. "Well, 'Cousin Athos' has a smoother ring to it."

"There is no need to add the 'cousin,' Madame," Athos said, with all the innocent ignorance of his pre-noose fixation days, "Please feel free to simply call me Athos."

As if she could sense her husband being friendly with someone else, Milady reappeared from the cluster of dancers and showed The Widow her freshly sharpened teeth. "And you may call me Charlotte," she told The Widow, "I am Athos' wife."

Ha, now Alice had to deal with  _two_ married couples. Aramis hoped the atmosphere suffocated her.

Ah, but she was a clever one. "Is that Constance Bonacieux? I have always wished to make her acquaintance, but I never had the opportunity."

Porthos opened his mouth, but Milady, the wonderfully bitter murderess, beat him to it. "Why, what a coincidence! I was looking forward to meeting her myself tonight. Come, we must hurry before D'Artagnan steals her away."

When they had gone, Porthos frowned and said, "Why would she say that? She knows D'Artagnan's too young for kidnapping."

Aramis shrugged a shoulder. Sparing a glance at Athos turned into a double take as he noticed the other man's eyebrows dancing on his forehead. He smacked his hand over them.

"You should really take some classes," he suggested, "They are already getting out of control and it is not even time for cake."

(&)

Constance had never been so popular. She and D'Artagnan barely spoke to words after their little introduction and suddenly it was as if half the ballroom was flocking over to get her name. Even though she knew her abrupt fame was due to D'Artagnan's evident crush, it was still nice to bask in it for a bit.

Meeting Alice, though, was a treat. She had always wanted to befriend the woman with the lovely garden next door, but their schedules never aligned for a proper meet-greet on the sidewalk, and she could never impose on knocking on Alice's door and introducing herself. Now she had an in, as well as a standing invitation to visit whenever she liked.

Milady on the other hand was like the other guests--as foreboding as she was beautiful. She had the strangest teeth: sharp and pointed, almost like a shark's. D'Artagnan's liking her did nothing to lessen the off-putting feeling the woman exuded like a miasma. When she was asked to take a walk in the cemetery with D'Artagnan, she readily acquiesced.

Walking from her beat-up van earlier--true, she only lived a few blocks away, but these heels were _not_ made for concrete--she saw a few peaks of the headstones from what could only be a private family cemetery. Up close, it was far bigger than any she had ever seen; it easily took more land than the house, pristine mausoleums and statues gleaming under the moonlight, surrounded by winding paths.

 "This is amazing," Constance murmured.

"You really think so?" asked D'Artagnan eagerly, "Most people in the neighborhood always find it disturbing. All the more reason to enjoy it, but they never think so."

Constance smiled. She was starting to get used to the strange way the Muskett family thought. If anything it was refreshing. "I've always liked cemeteries," she said, taking the first step beyond the wrought-iron gate, "They tell so many stories without saying a word. And when you speak, you always feel like something is listening, though you don't know what. It can be frightening, but at the same time, you can't help but love it."

D'Artagnan took her hand in both of his, startling her. "That is beautiful, Madame."

Constance laughed, "Please, D'Artagnan. I was Madame before my husband died. Call me Constance."

"How did he die, anyway?"

"Oh, we were being robbed. The fool thought he could defend himself, got stabbed with a knife right in the abdomen. He was gone before the ambulance arrived."

D'Artagnan hummed, but he did not sound sympathetic. In fact, he seemed intrigued. "Father Muskett--my father's father--he met death much the same way. Well, he was not being robbed; it was an accident. My father has gotten better with his aim."

Constance paused, clearly distressed. "Your father killed his father?"

"Is it really murder if it was an accident, though? We've tried to answer that question for centuries."

Constance shook her head and just kept walking. "How old was your father?"

"Oh, around five. His mother insisted he start with his knives early."

"D'Artagnan...you have a very unusual family."

"Thank you, Constance. You are the kindest woman I've ever met."

An unfamiliar feeling of bashfulness tingled through Constance's nerves, turning her eyes to their feet. "For a strange boy who hung around my shop windows, you can be quite the charmer. Even though I am ten years older than you."

D'Artagnan shrugged, "Cousin Ninon married Fleur, who is eleven years younger than her."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his entire face froze with Constance's heart. Visibly backtracking, he stammered, "Of course what I mean by that is...I do not mind being _friends_ with-with a woman older than me."

Constance giggled into her hand, and he groaned an apology into his.

"I would like to be friends," she said at length.

"Yes," he replied readily, though his voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he repeated in a deeper voice than his normal one, "Yes."

She laughed all the way to the first mausoleum. After that, D'Artagnan launched into stories about his family's macabre deaths with gusto. She asked a few questions here and there about their lives, he answering to the best of his ability based on the many stories told by his parents and other relatives. This went on for quite some time, not that either of the pair was keeping track.

When D'Artagnan had reached Cousin Athos' brother Thomas and his wife Catherine's murder-suicide, a familiar creak sounded behind them. Constance gasped when she saw a hand rise from a black box settled on a stone slab next to a bench facing Thomas and Catherine's graves. In its fingers was a piece of parchment. D'Artagnan approached nonchalant as you like, taking the note with a friendly smile.

"Thank you, Thing," he said.

"Thing?" Constance all but squeaked.

"Mm. He's always there to lend a hand around here." While Constance tried to decide whether to laugh or scream, D'Artagnan made a noise of surprise. "Is it already so late? Sorry Constance, but my father says it is time for cake. Perhaps I could show you the rest of the cemetery some other time?"

The question, which sounded so hopeful, warmed Constance's heart and calmed her nerves. "I would like that."

D'Artagnan positively beamed.

(&)

One tango with Porthos was all it took to restore Aramis to his proper gloomy charm. He and Porthos guided D'Artagnan to the ten-layered monstrosity as it was rolled into the ballroom, without a glance in The Wi--Alice's direction. All of the guests bursts into a heart-wrenching dirge with breath-taking harmonies as the trio walked across the spotless floor.

"Did you get to kiss her?" Porthos whispered on the way.

"She told me she wants to be friends," D'Artagnan replied.

"Good!" Aramis congratulated, "That's a wonderful start! Now you can show her how respectable you are and slowly work your way up."

"Fathers, can we please stop talking about this?"

Aramis trilled his lips. "You ruin all my fun."

Nevertheless, the subject was dropped by the time D'Artagnan was handed the large knife and hoisted onto Porthos' shoulders. The bones bordering each layer of the cake gave a loud crack as he jumped off his father, cutting from the top to the bottom in one clean swipe. This process was repeated once more, so that ten slices of varying sizes were created. Naturally, D'Artagnan got the first bite of the largest piece.

His eyes lit up as he tasted his cake. "Is this frog juice filling?"

"With crunchy woodworm," Porthos added proudly. "Your favorite."

A muffled bat's shriek escaped D'Artagnan, though thankfully not as violent as the one he always reserved for Athos' visits. His plate was set down so he could embrace his parents. For a moment, Aramis and Porthos shared the same painful memory of having the bend down to catch a little boy running at them full speed.

(&)

Presents took hours, since every member of the family was there that year and every single one of them wished to see D'Artagnan open their gift to him. Describing them all would take more time than we have left together, so if you would permit me, I will give you a short list of D'Artagnan's absolute favorites from the pile:

1\. From Constance: a lovely card  
2. From Cousins Athos and MIlady: a brand new sword inlaid with garnets and a silver handle, complete with a matching set of knives.  
3\. From his parents: a new weapons' belt with a silver fleur-de-lys as a buckle.  
4\. From Aunt Margeurite: a framed picture of Comte de Rochefort's gouging, as is tradition for every Muskett since his death (courtesy of Deadman's Photography)  
5. From Aunt and Uncle Dumas: a recipe for a salve that heals all non-mortal wounds (for emergencies)  
6. From Thing: a severed head for his collection  
7\. From Cousins Anne and Louis: a pair of expensive liquid-resistant gloves (just in case)   
8. From Grandmother Arachnie: a batch of pet spiders from unknown caves in Australia   
9\. From Cousins Ninon and Fleur - a First Edition of the entire Hannibal series by Thomas Harris  
10. From Lurch: howling stationary

It was extremely late, or early, when everything was all said and done. Luckily for the hosts and most of the guests, Ninon offered to perform a Mass Teleportation spell. The house was quiet at the end of only half and hour's time.

D'Artagnan escorted Constance to Gate, who obligingly opened with as many creaks as could be managed, to set the mood just right.

Constance asked, "What's wrong with your gate?"

D'Artagnan scrunched his nose. "You noticed it too? Father must have tried de-oiling it on his own. He loves taking control of these parties; it gives Lurch a--"

"--heart attack?"

He laughed, "Constance, you are the funniest woman I have ever met. No, he gives Lurch a short circuit."

Constance blinked. Then she ducked her head and giggled, "Right. Of course he does."

They reached Constance's car, looking everywhere but each other. At length, Constance cleared her throat and murmured, "Thank you for inviting me. It was...a unique experience."

D'Artagnan grinned, "Come over anytime. I'm sure Gate will let you in, and my fathers always love company. Although," he scratched his ear, "I should warn you about, eh..."

"Public displays of affection?"

"Yes."

Constance shrugged a shoulder, "I think it's a splendid thing they are so unreserved with how much they love each other. Someday I hope to have a love like that."

D'Artagnan barked out another laugh--or maybe he just barked; at this point, Constance would not be surprised either way.

"Well, who wouldn't?" he spluttered, blushing worse than a boy on prom night. "I will see you around then?"

Constance sighed through her nose, an indulgent smile on her lips. "Yes," she said quietly, pressing a kiss to his cold cheek, "I hope so."

There was a loud, hollow  _bang_ behind D'Artagnan, making her jump but him give a despaired noise.

"What was--"

"Nothing! Thank you for coming, and for the card. Have a good night!"

Constance put a hand over her mouth to keep herself from laughing out loud as he all but ran back to the house, Gate slamming behind him. She climbed into her car still laughing, all the way to her house.

(&)

" _Fa-ther_!"

Aramis at least had the decency to look guilty. "Sorry," he said, "I was so proud of you and the hammer was already in my hands--"

Porthos waved to said hammer, now returned to its place on the wall. "Which I took away."

"Yes, which your father took away. But congratulations! A kiss already!"

Athos' eyebrows worked up and down, despite his face retaining his usual passive expression. "Yes, well done."

Milady sighed, smacking her husband's forehead to get the eyebrows to stop. Over his muttered thanks she said, "And now you are eighteen! How time does fly."

Porthos grumbled, "Let's not talk about it just yet."

D'Artagnan's frustration melted into an exasperated smile. "Father, you're acting as if I am packing for college tomorrow!" Aramis gave a noise that sounded like a cross between a punched walrus and a strangled cat. "Oh, right, no 'c' word. Sorry."

His fathers and uncle embraced him nevertheless. His aunt made sure to take enough pictures on her phone to fill an entire album. Between Aramis' pathetic whimpering about his little boy growing up too fast, Porthos sniffling, and Athos' awkward patting, D'Artagnan's face contorted into enough expressions to give the pictures a good variety.

At the end of five minutes, Athos muttered something about the time and pulled away, thus proving why he was D'Artagnan's favorite relative. Aramis and Porthos, however, kept their son securely under their chins. Their son, who was beginning to turn a delightful shade of turquoise.

"Porthos," Athos gently admonished as Milady snickered behind him, taking a few more pictures.

Porthos quickly swiped his eyes. "Right," he grunted, "i's very late. Come on, Aramis... _Aramis_."

Aramis determinedly held on, snapping, "I will squeeze him until he turns small again."

D'Artagnan choked. Porthos sighed, untangling his husband's fingers to let him breathe. Before Aramis had a chance to latch on with  _all_ of his limbs, Porthos scooped him up and carried him towards the staircase.

" _Bonne nuit!"_ he called over his shoulder. Aramis, who had been struggling like an excited octopus, instantly latched his lips to Porthos' shoulder and neck.

"French," he muttered.

"Good night," Athos replied with a small smile. He turned back to Milady, who was teaching D'Artagnan how best to breathe after being choked to near death.  _And she would know_.

This thought--and the images which followed--got his eyebrows working once more. He glared at them as best he could, but alas, even his best scowl failed to quiet them.

"I am going to bed," he mumbled, and off he went.

(&)

"Another birthday gone," Aramis sighed, dangling his limbs like a swooning maiden in Porthos' arms as Porthos reached their bedchamber. "When will they stop?"

"That's the thing about birthdays, 'Mis," Porthos replied, "They don't stop. Even when you're dead, people'll celebrate your birthday."

"Mm, true. We should make a new house rule, right next to Assistance with Hiding Bodies: No Celebrating Birthdays Postmortem."

"Sounds like a plan, love."

Porthos tossed him clear across the room; there was a loud  _thud_ and a breathless  _oof_ as Aramis collided with the hard mattress. He disappeared into their closet to exchange his party suit with his black silk pajamas with translucent coattails. All the while, he listened to and shared his sympathy with Aramis' bemoaning about their child sprouting like a very tenacious weed. When he returned, Aramis had shucked his own suit and was stretching out like an upended starfish.

"Perhaps," he was saying as Porthos rolled him over to make room on their bed, "if I had him join the Captain and Richelieu--"

"Hey now, remember Constance?"

"Hm? What about her?"

"No, Aunt Constance."

"Oh-- _oh_ , right. Fine, probably not the best idea to kill our own son and live with his ghost."

"Two are bad enough, eh?"

 _"We heard that!"_ echoed through a cold wind from the walls, blowing out the candles Thing had so nicely lit earlier.

The couple laughed, settling under the covers once the room warmed back to its previous fifty degrees (Fahrenheit; no need to be alarmed--yet). A brief silence followed, one that quickly became heavy with nostalgia over the irritating little bat down the hall. Only he was no longer so little.

"It'll be dreadful," Porthos said, sounding almost like a lost child trying to reassure himself. "Won't it?"

Aramis smiled, albeit sadly, and kissed him. "Darling Porthos," he whispered, "when we're together, everything is dreadful."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. A cookie to whoever got the Night Vale and American Horror Story references.
> 
> Comments/criticism always welcome. I did write this in two short bursts, and one of them was an all-nighter, with barely any editing involved whatsoever, so please be honest if something is off-kilter, and not in the Addams way.
> 
> (I am still so very sorry.)


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